NICE.
Five years passed away after the marriage in York Place without
anything particularly eventful occurring in my life. I finished my
education, took a fairly good degree at Cambridge, got called to the
Bar, and was, perhaps, neither better nor worse than the majority of
bachelors who have uncontrolled possession of a large income. As time
passed on, I am ashamed to say that I pretty nearly forgot all about
Miss Grey. This seems, no doubt, very fickle and unromantic. But five
years is a long time; and the new scenes and circumstances that I was
surrounded by after my marriage naturally engrossed my attention in a
way that those who have never experienced such a change of fortune can
hardly understand or make allowance for.
I shall take up the thread of my story in the December of 187-, when
I was stopping at Nice with a Mr. Mervin, who was about my own age,
and a great friend of mine. We left London for Nice on the evening
after I had gone through the ceremony of being called to the bar; and
I devoutly wish that I had space to tell how we left London and Paris
wrapped up in cold and fog, and, after traveling all night, woke up
in the morning while the train was running along the shores of the
Mediterranean, dazzled by the wondrous light of that southern climate.
The light seemed a universal presence. It was unlike anything I could
have imagined; and the whole of my first day at Nice seemed to me like
a continued morning.
On the second night after our arrival we went to a ball at the English
club. Why we went there I hardly know, for neither of us was much of a
ladies' man. Mervin was somewhat a Bohemian, and the peculiar position
in which I was placed made me avoid the society of ladies, lest I
should contract or engender an affection that could not be requited.
We had scarcely entered the ballroom, however, when Mervin exclaimed:
"Goodness me! Mrs. O'Flaherty, and Miss O'Flaherty too. I declare.
Well, this is an unexpected pleasure."
One of the ladies he addressed was a stout, middle-aged matron, whose
countenance bespoke her nationality quite as unmistakably as did her
name. Her companion was a tall, fair-haired young lady who seemed to me
to have one of the most refined and beautiful faces I had ever seen.
"Why, I protest," continued Mervin, before either of the ladies could
say a word in answer to his salutation, "my dear Mrs. O'Flaherty, it
must be a year since we have seen each other, and you seem to have
grown ten years younger."
"Tell that yarn to the mounted maranes, Misther Blarney," said Mrs.
O'Flaherty, laughing, and looking quite pleased.
"Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Brooke," said Mervin. "Mr.
Brooke, Mrs. O'Flaherty; Mr. Brooke, Miss O'Flaherty."
We bowed.
"Mr. Brooke was wishing for a partner for the next waltz, Miss
O'Flaherty. I can thoroughly recommend him as a waltzer, and I am sure
you will not blight his wishes," continued Mervin.
I was not wishing for anything of the sort. But I was able to dance,
which he was not; and, as I knew that he was maliciously speculating on
my being as unaccomplished as he was in this respect, it gave me great
pleasure to ask Miss O'Flaherty if I might be her partner. She assented
with an easy grace that surprised me; for I could not understand how
such a refined and lady-like girl could be the daughter of such an
unalloyed mass of vulgarity as Mrs. O'Flaherty was.
"I'll kape me eye on yez so that ye won't have the bother of hunting
for me when the dance is over," said Mrs. O'Flaherty. "I'd be askin'
Misther Marvin to lade me out himself av I was a few year younger. But
we'll be afther havin' some liquid refreshment whilst yer divartin'
yerselves. Would ye take yer foot off me tail, if ye plase, sir?"--this
last to a gentleman who had inadvertently trod on the train of her
dress. The people about us were beginning to titter.
One never knows where little accomplishments, which can be easily
acquired, may turn of use. I had learned to dance, not because I
intended to go to balls or parties, but because I thought it foolish
to run the risk of some time or other being placed at a disadvantage
through want of proficiency in so easy an art. On the present occasion
I was rewarded by having a most delightful companion during a
considerable portion of the evening. At first our conversation was, of
course, of a more or less commonplace character. When the first waltz
was over we found that Mervin had escaped from Mrs. O'Flaherty. But
the worthy dame had got a companion of her own sex and age, and when I
had supplied them with some of the "liquid refreshment" they were both
partial to, "Polly," as she called her beautiful daughter, was free to
join me in another dance. How Miss O'Flaherty could be her daughter
was an enigma which completely baffled me. There was not a particle
of family likeness between them; and while Mrs. O'Flaherty was the
embodiment of good-natured vulgarity, Miss O'Flaherty was a clever,
highly-educated young lady, whose perfectly self-possessed and polished
manners showed unmistakably that she had been brought up in the society
of people who were, to put it mildly, better bred than her mother.
Our conversation, as I have said, was at first about commonplace
matters, such as the difference of the climate in England and the south
of France in winter; the difference of English and French customs; the
light literature of the day, and so on. I have heard a story of an
eminent queen's counsel who had been examining the Duke of Wellington
before a Parliamentary committee, and who, on being asked by a friend
if he had been examining the great duke, replied, "No, it was he who
was examining me."
I felt in somewhat the same predicament with Miss O'Flaherty. There
was nothing of the blue-stocking or the _doctrinaire_ about her. She
was perfectly unpretentious, and unself-conscious. But she was so full
of information, and her memory and imagination moved so quickly and
naturally, that whatever subject we spoke about she seemed to lead the
conversation. At length, as we were sitting in a retired part of the
room, and were speaking about music, I told her of a musician I knew,
who had a dog that he had to put out of the room before the music
began, because it cried so much.
"Indeed," said Miss O'Flaherty, "how thoughtless. If he had left the
door open the poor dog would no more have left the room than you or I
would--that is," she added with a smile, "if it were _music_ that made
the poor animal cry."
"I confess, Miss O'Flaherty," I said, "that I do not understand you."
"What!" she said, looking at me in surprise, "you don't know why
some animals, like some human beings--only some--cry when they hear
music--not noise, but music?"
"No," I replied, "I have often wondered."
"And all your learning has not enabled you to answer so easy a
question?" she said, in a tone of sarcasm.
"I do not pretend to much learning," I answered, "but I have never
heard any explanation of the fact."
"Very likely not," she answered; "the man who put the poor animal out
of the room knew, possibly, less of his art than his dog did. The dog
cried for the same reason that a human being might have cried, because
the music roused in its mind unsatisfied longings that tortured it by
the vagueness and uncertainty with which they spoke of a state higher
and better than the poor animal could understand."
"I am surprised I did not think of so natural an explanation," I said.
"My friends say I am music mad, and, indeed, music is almost a mania
with me. I wonder it did not occur to me why the lower animals are
affected by music as we are."
"Because," she answered, "they have got the highest power of the
critic, the power of spontaneously registering the effect of what
they hear on their own minds, whilst we, as a rule, can do little
more than judge of what we hear, not by our own original capacity of
appreciation, which is for each individual the true touchstone of art,
but by some preconceived, and probably badly conceived model, as if
the beautiful were molded in any one form. No wonder that with such
principles of criticism Haydn and Mozart had unfitted the world to
understand Beethoven--melodists in _excelsis_ though they were."
"Then Beethoven is your favorite composer," I ventured to remark.
"Yes," she said. "I think I may say his works are my principal
recreation."
"I am afraid it is against etiquette to make such a request," I said,
diffidently, "but I too am a worshiper of Beethoven. Unfortunately, I
was never taught any instrument, and I do not hear his music as often
as I could wish. Will you forgive me if I say that it would give me
great pleasure to hear you play some of his works?"
She replied in a laughing tone, which at once brought the conversation
down from the rather sentimental latitudes into which it had been
straying.
"You should speak of my 'reading' of his works--that is, I believe the
correct expression. I am afraid that if you heard my poor performance
you would say, as a gentleman said to his daughter, on whose musical
education he had been expending a great deal of money--
"When Orpheus played, he touched the rocks and trees,
But you, my lady, only touch the keys."
However, we have _dejeuner_ at half-past eleven, and if you like to
join us any morning I shall be happy to let you hear my interpretation
of Beethoven--such as it is."
"Next to the present time there is no time so sure as the immediate
future, and if I thought that you would not be too tired after
to-night, I should do myself the honor to accept your kind invitation
to-morrow morning."
"I shall not stay here much longer," said Miss O'Flaherty, smiling.
"And, as to my being tired, I expect to be out before eight o'clock in
the morning. So, if you like to come, we--for I think I can speak for
my aunt--shall be happy to see you; and after _dejeuner_ you will have
an opportunity of criticizing my performance, for I generally play the
piano for an hour or two in the middle of the day. We are stopping at
the Maison Normande, on the Promenade des Anglais."
If we had been in England there would have been something shocking in
a young lady giving such an invitation to a stranger with whom she had
merely danced at a public ball. But we were not in England, and Miss
O'Flaherty spoke with an unconscious ease and authority that made the
whole arrangement seem quite natural. If she had been her own mother
she could not have chaperoned herself more effectively or gracefully.
"I shall be very punctual," I said in a serious tone, which I intended
to be very respectful.
"I hope you will keep your word better with me than you have with my
aunt," she replied, laughing. "You promised to bring me back as soon as
the last dance was over," saying which she rose, and I had to follow
her in quest of Mrs. O'Flaherty.
So then Mrs. O'Flaherty was only her aunt and not her mother. "Thank
God," I said to myself. Why thank God? Why, because I was in love with
her. I did not realize it quite at once. We found Mrs. O'Flaherty.
They left early. I saw them into their carriage, and left the ball as
soon as they had gone. It was not till I got out into the beautiful,
soft, southern night that I realized the words of Mr. Chambers, when
I announced my intention of marrying Miss Grey "I believe that if any
words could balk you in your purpose, it would be the greatest kindness
that ever was done you."
"Why did he not balk me?" I asked myself, angrily and illogically. I
had met my better self in Miss O'Flaherty. She was the being for whom
I had unconsciously yearned through all these years. Was I to be kept
from her by a phantom?
I lay awake nearly the whole of that night, and did not get to sleep
until shortly before I was called at half-past eight o'clock.
It was a few minutes after nine when I came down to the coffee-room. We
had ordered an English breakfast, and Mervin was pouring out his coffee
when I came into the room.
"Just in time," he said, by way of salutation, helping himself as
he spoke, in a way which showed that he would not have delayed his
breakfast if I had been late. "Why, I had no idea that you could dance."
"Much obliged for your kindness in saying that I could."
"Oh, yes," he answered. "Don't mention it; I thought I'd take a rise
out of you. Beaten with my own weapons. Lost the adorable Polly for my
pains----"
"I hope you have nothing to say against Miss O'Flaherty," I said,
getting angry. "If you have it had better not be said in my presence."
"Hulloa! 'pistols for two, coffee for one,'" said Mervin, laughing.
"All I have to say, my dear fellow, is that for a woman who is not a
coquette, and who is one of the truest women alive, she is the greatest
man-slayer I have ever known. What I could never make out is how she
could belong to such a clan as the O'Flahertys of O'Flaherty Hall (as
we called it), Bedford Square. But 'dull Boetia gave a Pindar birth,'
and I suppose that it was on the same principle that nature permitted
the late Michael O'Flaherty, of money-lending renown, to be the sire
of a woman who would be an empress if rank were the reward of merit and
not accident."
"So her father was a money-lender," I said, helping myself to some
cutlets.
"A prince among money-lenders," rejoined Mervin, "a man whose rate per
cent. rose in a very direct proportion to your necessities, and who
never deserted his prey while there was a drop of blood left in its
carcass. But, 'rest his sowl,' he's been dead these last three years."
"But O'Flaherty is not a Jewish name," I remarked.
"Jewish name be hanged!" said Mervin. "Does it follow that if a man
is a money-lender he must also be a Jew? That's the way that one
generation goes on repeating the folly of another. Because the Jews
were the bankers of the world at a time when, owing to the ignorance of
our thieving and bloodthirsty ancestors, banker and money-lender were
synonymous, every man who is a money-lender is at once set down as a
Jew. No, he was not a Jew, but an Irishman; and let me tell you that in
London, at least, for every one Jew there are a dozen gentiles who are
money-lenders, and that whereas the Jew is generally a fairly straight
man of business, the gentile is generally an unmitigated scamp. The
Jew means business. You can rely on his word; as a rule, he lends his
own money, and his rate of interest depends on the security you have
to offer; for there is a perfectly open market, and Jews are just as
ready as gentiles to lend at bank rate when the necessary security is
forthcoming. The gentile money-lender, on the other hand, is generally
a man whose only idea of business is to lie like Ananias; and very
often he is not a _bona-fide_ money-lender at all, but a middle-man,
with whom you are probably wasting your time."
"Was Mr. O'Flaherty one of this class?"
"Yes and no. He had plenty of money to lend, but he had not the courage
to part with it unless he could get sixty per cent. compound interest
on security that would have satisfied the Governors of the Bank of
England, or unless his avarice was excited by the prospect of getting
a thoroughly fat pigeon fast in his nets. He was not so bad during the
last three or four years of his life, for Miss Polly, who had come home
from school to live with him, and who was an heiress in her own right,
kept a pretty sharp eye on him, and did a great deal to purify the
moral atmosphere of O'Flaherty Hall. It was a pandemonium at one time,
I can assure you."
"But how could a girl like her live in such a house?"
"She wanted him to leave London. At one time they took a house in
Hastings, but the force of habit was too much for him, and in three
months or so he was back in town again. He could not do without his old
haunts and associates; Miss O'Flaherty came back with him. She had her
own suit of apartments in the house in Bedford Square, and, I need not
say, never showed herself amongst her father's guests, or clients, or
hangers-on, or whatever you may choose to call them. But her presence,
though unseen, exercised a great influence. Old O'Flaherty could not,
of course, ever be thoroughly reformed; but, after she came to live in
Bedford Square, he held his receptions in taverns, or such places, and
not at his own house, and the host of nobs and snobs of all sorts who
came to him as touts or tipsters or to borrow money, had mostly to seek
for him abroad. I have often pitied poor Miss O'Flaherty; I believe
she has sacrificed herself for a thoroughly worthless father. She
lived with him, I am certain, to keep him from his evil ways. And I am
sure that the reason why she refused one or two very eligible suitors
was that she was too proud to marry a man who must have despised her
father."
"That would be rather too romantic a reason to influence a woman in
such a matter," I remarked.
"I grant you it would as far as the ordinary run of women are
concerned," replied Mervin, "but Miss O'Flaherty is made of sterner
stuff than most women are, and she must have known that while
her father was alive his reputation would always place her at a
disadvantage both with her husband's family and in society. I cannot
think of anything more galling to a really clever, high-spirited woman,
as she is, than to know that there are circumstances connected with her
family which would be a constant source of shame to her husband."
There seemed to me to be an element of romance in the story that Mervin
told me about Miss O'Flaherty which, if it were possible, increased
my affection for her. My compassion was excited by the tale, and
compassion has been well defined to be momentary love. As I walked
along the promenade, by the shore of the Mediterranean, about an
hour after breakfast, I debated with myself, in a perfect agony, the
question whether I ought to call upon her. I knew that as a man of
sense and honor it was my duty to her, and to myself, to leave Nice
at once, for I felt certain that if I came under the influence of her
presence again my passion would overcome me and I should tell her of
my love. On the other hand, I felt drawn toward her by an irresistible
spell.
How the matter would have ended if I had not run across Mrs.
O'Flaherty, I do not know; but my accidentally meeting her left me no
escape, and in a few minutes I found myself in a handsomely furnished
parlor talking to Miss O'Flaherty, who looked more bewitching than ever
in a light-blue morning costume. When the _dejeuner_ was over, Mrs.
O'Flaherty retired to have a snooze, as she called it, and presently
Miss O'Flaherty sat down to the piano.
Of her performance, I can only say that she seemed to me to play as
Beethoven or Mendelssohn themselves have played. The instrument seemed
a living thing in her hands. It spoke out of love and hope and joy, of
sorrow and affliction. It seemed like a spirit to intercede between
us, and to tell me that in spite of all human laws and ceremonies
she, and she alone was my wife. I must have been mad when I told her
of my love--told her my whole story, told her in words I could never
recall--fierce, frantic words I am afraid they were--that without her
life was worthless to me--begged her to fly with me to some far-off
country where we could live for each other unknown, and where our union
would be sanctified by our love, and then sank into a chair horrified
at what I had done.
She had risen from the piano while I was speaking, and was standing
by the mantel-piece. Her countenance was as pale as death; it was
as white and, save for a strange light that shone from her eyes, as
expressionless as the face of a corpse. She did not interrupt me by a
word or a sign, only stood and looked me straight in the face while I
spoke.
I had been sitting for nearly a minute with my face in my hands,
stupefied with shame and terror, when these words rang in my astonished
ears:
"You have asked me to be your mistress; what guaranty have I that you
would have asked me to be your wife if you were free?"
"This guaranty," I cried, "and this atonement for what I have done.
I shall leave to-night for London. If I possibly can I shall have
the marriage with Miss Grey dissolved. In any case, I shall live in
future on my own earnings, and not on her money. I shall start by the
first ship for Australia. I shall take one hundred pounds to commence
my new life with, and I shall never rest until I have repaid every
farthing of the money I now loathe myself for having received in such a
manner--innocent as my intentions were at first."
"And it was for love, not for money, that you married Miss Grey," she
said, the tears dropping from her eyes as she spoke.
"It was the dream of a boy," I answered; "and when I have gone you will
have this guaranty of the purity of my feelings for you--however much I
have erred--that having dared to tell you of my love, I have exchanged
wealth for poverty and exile, rather than live on the income I have
derived from the woman who has made it impossible for me to ask you to
be my wife."
"Sit down for a moment," she said, standing with her elbows on the
mantel-piece, and her face buried in her hands. I had risen from my
seat, but I did as she asked. We neither of us spoke for a minute or
two. Then she said, without raising her face from her hands:
"You would have asked me to be your wife if you were not married?"
"Good God! of course I would--you know I would," I cried in wonder.
"And if I could find out a means by which I could legally be your wife,
would you take me?"
I sprung from my seat and was standing by her side imploring her to
tell me what she meant, and telling her that life was worthless to me
without her, when suddenly she threw her arms round my neck, crying as
she did so:
"My darling cousin, I am your wife. It was me whom you married in
York Place. I loved you as you loved me from the first. I have been
following your career all these years, wondering whether you could love
me when you were a man, and in your rightful position, as I knew that
you loved me when we were married."
Of what followed I cannot trust myself to speak.
It was about an hour afterward, as we were sitting by the
Mediterranean, that I heard from her own lips the explanation of the
enigma of our marriage.
I wish that I had space to tell the whole story in her own words, but I
must summarize a considerable portion of the tale. I shall, therefore,
only repeat as much as is necessary to enable the reader to understand
our respective positions on the day we met in Chandos Street.
Her mother, who was the only child of a wealthy cotton-spinner,
died when she was about three years old. When she was about twelve
the grandfather, who had disowned his daughter for marrying Michael
O'Flaherty, also died. And, as he was a widower, childless and
intestate, Miss O'Flaherty, of course, became entitled to the whole
of his property--amounting to nearly £250,000. My father was a first
cousin of her mother. About two years before his death he got involved
in some bill-transactions with Michael O'Flaherty, and the result was
that Michael O'Flaherty got possession without, practically speaking,
any consideration of a reversionary interest that my father had in
£2,000. The reversion fell in about twelve months afterward, but, as
my father had parted with it, I was left penniless at his death. This
had been discovered by Miss O'Flaherty a short time before I met her in
Chandos Street.
Miss O'Flaherty had been educated at a French convent; and Mervin was
right in his surmises as to the reasons that induced her to live in
Bedford Square, and to discard the numerous suitors to her hand and
fortune. Amongst these suitors was an elderly baronet, who sought by
marrying her to recoup the fortune he had squandered in betting and
dissipation. In his attempt to gain Miss O'Flaherty he was seconded
by his mother. And Michael was so pleased at having a baronet for
a son-in-law that he, and, at his instance, his sister--not the
one who was in Nice--brought all the pressure they could bear on
Miss O'Flaherty, to induce her to marry a man whom she knew to be a
worthless _roue_, and whom she despised as such.
I may now continue the narrative in her own words:
"When you told me your history I was horrified to think that a
gentleman's son, and one who for years had been educated in the society
of gentlemen, should be in such a position, and still more horrified
to think that you were my own cousin, and that you had been brought to
such a state by the conduct of my father. I felt it a solemn duty to
do something to atone for what you had suffered at my father's hands.
But how? A young lady cannot very well make large presents of money to
a young gentleman without the risk of her conduct being misconstrued;
and I could not tell you who I was, and why I assisted you, without
reflecting on my father's conduct in a way that I could not bring
myself to do.
"Then, suddenly, the thought flashed through my mind that if we were
married I could atone to you for all that you had endured, and end
forever any risk of my being Lady Barton; for, to tell you the truth, I
felt that I was being overcome, as one woman is not much against two
women and two men, especially when they are all older than herself,
and almost the only people whom she knows. But then again there was a
difficulty. A woman cannot very well propose to a man; and, besides,
my good sir, you were not very well fit at the time to be lord and
master of myself and a household. Still, I knew that I should find
some way out of the difficulty, so I made the appointment with you to
meet me that night at York Place, at the house of the Mrs. O'Flaherty
whom you know, and, I am afraid, have been laughing at. However, she
is a very good woman, and always does exactly as I tell her, without
asking any questions. Well, I considered the matter, and the result of
my deliberations was, that if we were married there would be an end of
the persecution I was enduring about Sir Henry Barton. Your conduct
was very nice. You showed a very pretty spirit when you refused the
money I offered you in Chandos Street, and, for once at least, made me
thoroughly ashamed of myself. But, nevertheless, I was determined, my
good sir, that, if I could manage it, you should first fit yourself
to be my husband, and then declare your affection for me before I
acknowledged myself to be your wife.
"Accordingly I kept my veil down when I saw you in York Place, so that
you should not be able to recognize me too easily, and married you in
such a way that you did not know anything about me, even the Christian
name by which I am usually called; for while Catherine is my real name,
Polly is only a pet name my father gave me. My intention was to give
you the means to take your position in the world as a gentleman, and to
leave it to yourself to use them rightly."
"But suppose that I had not used them rightly? Suppose that I had done
what a good many men would have done if they were in my place--taken to
racing and other pastimes of the kind?"
"Oh, I knew that that was not at all likely. But if you had I should
have stopped you. I knew from Mr. Chambers how you were getting on, and
as long as you were studying hard, and taking your degree, and getting
called to the Bar, I let you alone. If I had found that you were
getting into bad habits I should have come to look after you myself;
and I should have reformed you very speedily, for I am very determined."
"But suppose," I remonstrated, "that in your absence I had fallen in
love with somebody else?"
"Well, I declare, one would think you had been consulting with Mr.
Chambers," she replied; "for you are raising all the objections that
he raised. I did not suppose anything of the kind. You were in love
with me when you married me, and then you fell in love with your books,
which made you perfectly safe. You have got on exceedingly well, much
better than you probably would if you had had a wife dangling about
after you. But suppose you had fallen in love with a second woman,
don't you think that I would have been a great fool if I could not have
made you fall in love with a third woman?"
"Unquestionably. But what, may I ask, did Mr. Chambers think of the
proceeding?"
"Oh, he was greatly opposed to it at first. But I told him plainly that
if he did not assist me I should get somebody else who would, though of
course I would be very sorry to leave him. When he saw you he thought
you a very nice lad--a great improvement on Sir Henry Barton--and he
has since come to the conclusion that there was a good deal of method
in my madness. He is waiting now with some curiosity to hear how we
have got on, for it was from him I heard that you had started for Nice."
"Then you have only come since I arrived."
"That is all. I got a letter from Mr. Chambers the evening you left
London saying you were going that evening to Nice. You had been called
to the Bar, and had done all that I wanted you to do, so I made Mrs.
O'Flaherty accompany me, and followed you the next night. We heard
about the ball from an old colonel whom she knows here, and I made him
get us tickets for it, and went to it on the chance of seeing you."
"And what would you have done if I had ceased to care for you?"
"Well, that I suppose would have depended on what I thought of you. I
had lived without you for five years, and if you had changed into a
nasty, unamiable creature I could have done without you for the rest of
my life. But then nice people don't change into nasty people any more
than sapphires or diamonds change into bits of flint or granite."
"You have an answer for everything," I said, laughing.
"Yes," she replied, "that is what Mr. Chambers used to say. But talking
about Mr. Chambers reminds me that the letter you got from him and
Mr. Furnival was all a piece of nonsense. The £2,000 a year is secured
to you in the marriage settlement, and you would not have forfeited
anything if you had insisted on knowing who I was. My object was to put
myself out of your mind as much as possible by making you think that
you would never see me again, so that you might attend to your books,
and fit yourself for the world, and let me know your real opinion of me
when you were competent to form one. And now I must get back, for Mrs.
O'Flaherty is returning to London this evening."
"So soon!" I cried involuntarily, in a tone of pleasurable surprise.
"Now stop that," she said. "Mrs. O'Flaherty is a very good woman
indeed, and you have not got rid of her yet, for we are going to
accompany her as far as Cannes, unless you prefer to stop here with Mr.
Mervin."
"No, thank you," I said. "I shall go to Cannes."
We left Nice by an evening train. Mervin was at Monaco, where he
usually passed his day; and as he spent most of his time at Monaco,
and had several friends in Nice, I did not feel as much compunction
as I might otherwise have felt in leaving a letter for him, which he
would get on his return at about ten o'clock, saying that I had been
taken away from Nice by urgent business, the nature of which he would
learn in due course if he watched the matrimonial advertisements in the
_Times_. We got out of the train at Cannes, leaving Mrs. O'Flaherty to
go on to Marseilles _en route_ for London.
As we drove up to the hotel I took out my purse to pay the fare.
"Why, that is a lady's purse," said Mrs. Brooke, who was sitting by my
side. "Who had the audacity to give it to you?
"A Miss Grey, who was an old sweetheart of mine," I replied.
"Then I am jealous," said Mrs. Brooke. And she always says that she is
jealous of Miss Grey. However, Miss Grey is the only person who has
ever given her cause for jealousy.
Three days afterward the numerous readers of the matrimonial
announcements in the London daily papers were informed of a marriage
which had taken place by special license at 41 York Place five years
previously, between James Brooke, only son of the late Reverend Robert
Brooke, and Catherine O'Flaherty, only daughter of the late Michael
O'Flaherty, Esq.
[Illustration]
Transcriber's Notes:
This story was originally published in _Belgravia: An Illustrated
London Magazine_ in 1886; it was later reprinted as filler material in
the _Favorite Library_ edition of _Little Golden's Daughter_ by Mrs.
Alex. McVeigh Miller. This text is derived from the later reprint.
Added table of contents.
Italics are represented with _underscores_.
Normalized 2000 to 2,000 throughout the text for consistency.
Page 183, changed "mantelpiece" to "mantel-piece" for consistency.